Pride
by Harmony283
Summary: There is no use to dwell on 'what if's' when it comes to betrayal. It only takes the time--days, weeks, hours--afterward, to see what will eventually happen...even if you know you can't do a thing about it. SPOILERS


**Pride**

**By Harmony283**

**Summary: **had things been easy, and gone as planned, they would have all gone home a little-worse for wear, but together. Unfortunately, nothing ever goes that way, but how much is one persons betrayal going to cost? Can they even set the price?

**Pairing: **Lavi x Kanda Lenalee + Allen, Allen + Road (all implied or 'friendship' )

**Authors Note: **Something I thought up of, after re-reading Chapter 184 roughly five times (consecutively) to waste time. Not sure if it's worth your time in reading, but I sure as heck hope it is. Oh, and I add in some random quotes I liked from Oscar Wilde. He's awesome. Thou shalt love him!

**Warning(s): **alcohol usage, violence, unstable minds, angst, and shounen-ai (if you choose to take it that way)

**~*~**

_Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation- __**Oscar Wilde**_

_._**~*~**

Or at least that was the excuse I'd give, when you'd wake up, groggy, and exhausted, like you hadn't slept a wink. I'd say it was probably a bad dream—maybe. I'd only _hint_ that I knew. And if you asked why the hell your head hurt so much—I would blame the alcohol.

The three bottles you had somehow downed (though, secretly, I took two) the night before, after we failed the mission. _Failed_—and—

The hole in the wall? Simple, you just got a bit angry. Punched it—I had gone to the bathroom, and had only heard it. Scared me half to death. Yeah, that was why the bandage was there too. Around your left hand (hopefully, you wouldn't realize the specifics—no one could _make_ that kind of punch with their left hand. Or maybe you could, I didn't know).

And as for why your back hurt—like you had been _thrown_ against the damned wall repeatedly. That was easy too—the bed wasn't comfortable. The place was run down enough to _prove_ that. But maybe the hardest thing was—why we're sharing a bed.

But then, I was awake now, and you were _asleep_. That was easy enough to pull off.

Why hadn't I woken you for training? Again, easy—I woke up only a few minutes ago.

_So why couldn't I move?_

I should, easily enough. Except I was hurt too, and I _knew _I was. Well, and you didn't. Or didn't remember, probably—because of the alcohol, yeah—and not because—

There was a gentle knock at the door, and I knew that was my cue. The head peeking in a second later—Lenalee, with _breakfast_, and looking entirely too disturbed for words—was another clue.

And the mouthed words, "Bookman's Coming." The flittered glance, towards you, helped too—because he had realized I wasn't in bed when he came back. And he'd know I'd be in _your_ room, possibly sleeping in the bed that was no longer occupied.

Lenalee choked back a sob. I grimaced, inwardly, and tried to force myself up. _Because_—I had to get up—_because_—she was going to start crying, and then, if you woke up, you'd more than remember the failure, and what happened because of it.

It wouldn't break you, no, but—I made the mistake of seeing. Seeing possibly the _worst_ emotion in your eyes at the betrayal. Like you were screaming—_'It happened twice?!'_ because we all thought he'd actually win out in the end.

Only to figure out he had been slipping, the entire time.

And everyone blamed themselves.

Lenalee swallowed, thickly, brushing her hair—it was now almost to her shoulders, it was nice to see that it was getting so long again—away from her eyes, face—cheeks, I now noticed in the soft early sunlight, a blotchy red. Of course she'd been crying. Because she saw it _first_—

And she had one damn hell of a poker face when dealing with it, initially, but she'd crack easily enough, and she was about to. We didn't need that either. _You_ didn't need that—since _you_ were the one they thought would bring him back.

It hurt to wonder about _that_ too. Who did he remind you of? It was too obvious to just _pass_ that up as _'He's an Exorcist. We can't lose him.' _Nothing ever _was_ that easy, after all. No matter how hard we'd try

_Again_

And

_Again_

And

_Again_

(Somewhere down the hall, an old grandfather clock began to chime. I had almost forgotten it had worked—and, it vaguely reminded me of Miranda, who was probably still out cold, in her room, from that head injury that—I cut that thought promptly off, leaving it hanging, in the chimes--)

Then I heard you groan, and it was _filled_ with that sort of pain. Because maybe, even now, your body would realize your failure before you did.

And I realized then, I wouldn't be able to come up with an excuse. You'd remember it all (though you _did_ have a pretty low alcohol tolerance, thankfully, or else I knew you wouldn't have gotten to sleep) , because it wasn't like you had bad memory. You couldn't afford to, I was sure. But you liked to forget. You were good at that too.

Then, you exhaled, shakily, and it was more than obvious than it was _painful_—

_The only emotion I'm allowed to feel._

And the one time I wanted—but _didn't want_—to feel it. The only _bad_ pain—the _emotional_ pain—

"Lavi," A second later, and a gruff voice made Lenalee jump, and jolt to the side. But it didn't matter—or, at least, I figured as much. Bookman appeared in the doorway a second later, battered and bruised, and a little worse for wear—just like the rest of us—with an annoyed, but knowing expression on his face.

I was still in bed—sitting up, though—and I didn't give a damn. Actually, I couldn't think of—at least, now, or—or during the _entire fight_ persay—that I _did_.

He gave me a steady look, and then, just as gruffly—but maybe, _impossibly_, softer—"So he isn't awake yet?"

"No," I answered easily enough, watching Lenalee, watch us—with nervous eyes. She knew just as much, now, probably. Maybe forced it out of Komui before we left—because both she _and_ Allen had—had _seen_ on the ark, and there was no way I could hide that.

So she probably asked, and he probably told (as much as he knew, anyway) so now she was wondering—would this be the confrontation?

My answer: I sure as hell _hoped_ not. Judging from his expression, though, I wasn't quite so sure.

"I see," but his words were thick with implication, "I'll assume the screaming…?" he trailed off, glancing around the room—at the wall, that had been punched in, nearly literally—and at the broken wine bottle on the floor.

"Nightmare." I answered simply enough, "It took enough to get him to sleep." I waved at the bottle on the ground—carefully—with the hand that _didn't_ feel like it would fall off.

Again, a calm, collected, insinuated, "I _see_." He looked from me, to you again, "Good of you to watch him then, I don't suppose losing someone else would have been…_acceptable_." And he knew, and meant it, for as dirty as it sounded.

Lenalee looked none too happy with it, though, "He's stronger than that." She squeaked out, voice still rough and hoarse from screaming, "He wouldn't…not—not Kanda."

"I'm sure he wouldn't either, Lena," I grinned, easily enough, at her, and it calmed her, if not only slightly. Because I was bitter, and I didn't feel much of a need to lay it on as thick as possible—not now, when, with the fatigue of battle—and the betrayal and the _loss_—

This time, a moan, and I turned my head, noticing the first signs—a slight—_curl_—you were curling into that horrible ball again—that Road had reduced you down to—when she did _that_—

And immediately my hand rested on your shoulder, squeezing. You didn't relax, just—curled even tighter and—"Shit, gramps, it's happening again."

Immediately he was on the other side of the bed, reaching out to find the same pressure points as he had had to—in order to _just _drag you back here.

Because, out of _all_ of us—you had been the one to _truly _fail. As much as I wanted to admit it was a group defeat—you had been the one to try the most. You had been the one who was closest—when Road first grabbed him—when he first agreed to _go_—

When she had hit you with _that_, though—that eerily familiar ability that I—I _never_ wanted you to experience—it had nearly killed me that the only way we could drag you back was by force.

Because you would have gone _insane_ (if you weren't, already. And that was _one_ hell hole I would rather you live far, far _away_ from, if I had any say-so in it. Which in the end, I knew I didn't)

It felt like an indefinite amount of time later—but you calmed, eventually, though, it wasn't until your body fully relaxed, lost to the sphere of gentle sleep, that Bookman moved away. Long since then—Lenalee had come closer, with equal worry on her face, as in her gentle hand movements. Her hand, was now, on my back, and I realized then—that my hand, too, mimicked the action, and I moved it—but not before brushing a lock of ebony hair away from your recently disturbed face.

Gramps didn't like that motion, however, and nearly immediately, I retracted my hand. His grumble of annoyance—in a tone, I could only tell was foreign, but had remembered, once in a while, when I was _younger_—was brief, and pointed, but he let it lone easily enough.

For which, I was entirely _too_ grateful, but—

"θα αναφερθώ σε αυτό αργότερα."(1) He ground out, a moment later—startling Lenalee into backing away again, when he came around towards the door.

"Ναι κύριε."(2) I responded back, just as easily—again, startling her—"But is it okay if I stay here?"

He glowered. I stared. He exhaled.

"Fine."

And I would have smiled, except now it wasn't the time. He didn't give me a chance to, regardless, he had already stepped out—into the hallway—and I could hear his footsteps, nearly silent, except for the _breathing_—and the clicking of the clock at the end of the hall, in the old abandoned building we had decided to stay at, for the night.

**~*~**

_Arguments are to be avoided; they are always vulgar and often convincing.__-__**Oscar Wilde**_

**~*~**

It had taken us three days, copious amounts of blood, and little to no emotional effort on his part, to get Kanda out of bed. And maybe I realized it a second too late, when he took his first couple of steps—that today wasn't going to be a good one.

Because three days to us, was the equivalent of three _weeks_ to him. Almost, if I did the math right in my head (which I was sure I didn't, but then, did it really _matter_ now?)

I realized, maybe, when he started to stumble, that catching him would have been a bad idea. He had the possibility of going off—at a higher and more _violent_ rate than usual. No one could blame him though, we all knew the reason. The lifelessness behind his eyes—because he thought he was _useless_.

And, of course, that damned man was _back_ again. To ask _him_ questions too—because he had been the last to fight Allen too. To see him as he was taken over by the Noah—and he'd want to know, too, if Road had said anything worth remembering in that dream world of hers.

Or rather, when she was _torturing_ him.

And he probably didn't give a damn about what _he_ thought, but then, he would if he couldn't even get out of bed. Which was why I was here, helping him in the first place.

Which was why, I was here, ready and willing to catch him—he had too many bruises as it was, and it was downright disheartening that he _was not_ healing as fast as he used to—but we could worry about the details later.

Because right now, I knew I had screwed up. Taken two steps forward—when he teetered—two more, when he stumbled back—and when my arms, looped, safely around his waist—

He froze.

He _glared_.

And the damned _door_ opened.

"Oh!" It was Lenalee—of _course_ it was Lenalee—with a tray in her hands, with two cups of coffee in it, "Are you—are you okay?" She stumbled over the words, placing the tray on his desk, and belatedly realizing that was a stupid question, "I mean—"

Yuu _didn't say a word_. I had to for him, "It's fine. We were…just practicing walking. For when—"

Her face set in a small scowl, and I dropped what I had been going to say.

There was no point in arguing, he'd figure out who was coming—soon enough. But, I knew it was a mistake regardless-because he _might have been_ shaking now. If it had been anyone else but me. Shaking, but _holding it in_, because—he wasn't ready for physical touch.

He probably would have rather _felt_ the floor, than _me_ and—I knew this, but—it wasn't like he didn't know Lenalee would just help him, if he tried to pull away.

"I see you brought coffee," I started, again, to fill the silence, and I could tell Lenalee wasn't focusing on it—because of the way her attention snapped back, from _whatever_ she had been concentrating on before.

She attempted to smile when I motioned—somehow, without letting Yuu go in the process—towards the drinks, and said, "Ah, yeah, I…figured you might _need_ them."

_Need them?_

"He came early."

_Ah._

Wait—

"Who?"

She swallowed, and the scowl was back again, though—really, now, it looked more sad and—ref_rained_ and—

"Leverrier?" She didn't even have to nod and I could feel Kanda stiffen in my arms, "_What_? I thought Komui said—"

"He _lied_," her voice was choked—and—how could I _think _she was _angry?—_she looked like she wanted to do nothing more than _cry_, but she had done that already. Too much. "He's here, now, and he wants to speak with—" I looked down at Kanda, she shook her head, "With _all _of us."

I looked back up, "All?"

She nodded, "Because apparently," and maybe then, she _did_ sound a bit angry, "Someone else…has been lying too. And they just won't tolerate it anymore."

_Someone else?_

I pointedly ignored the fact that her eyes, never quite left mine, as she backed towards the cups, and handed them, slowly, out. First to Kanda—he barely had a grip on it, but didn't drop it—and then, _to me_.

And then I realized—maybe, _maybe_—the Old Panda had said something.

_Shit_.

"Lenalee—" instead of grabbing the mug, I grabbed her wrist, slightly, "Who?"

She. Would. _Not_. Look. At. Me.

"Who do you think?" she spat—and I saw her hands, start to shake—causing the brown liquid to pull, and my stomach to sink, just a little bit.

And I wanted to say _me_ but the words never formed.

Never—_never_—

Before I heard the familiar steps of Bookman, coming down the hall, and for the _first_ time—I wanted to disagree. To get in an argument—to—to _something_. Because it was _not right_. Whatever he said.

And really, I didn't give a damn anymore.

**~*~**

_The advantage of the emotions is that they lead us astray, and the advantage of science is that it is not emotional.__ –__**Oscar Wilde **_

_**~*~**_

She took two steps back, then three, then four, then—a dozen more, and I really lost count after that. Because he was _here_—standing—_right there_—with Road practically _leaning off his arm._

And I felt like I was going to be sick. Actually, I was pretty sure I _was_.

And that was bad, bad, bad, bad—all _sorts_ of bad.

Because that meant I had to _feel _and Bookman was standing—_right there_—and if—I _shouted_—or ran forward—or _something_—then—

He glared at me, as if in warning. A warning I already got.

But it took that long for it to work—I guessed, sort of—anyway—maybe—or sorta-kinda-maybe-yeah—whatever worked in the long run.

Because I knew I wasn't thinking straight, when all I could pay _attention_ to was the damn body breathing—short, and shallow, being affected by that—that _bitch_—for lack of a better term—and—

A cackled laughter. It wasn't _Allen_ anymore. I knew it wasn't.

The 14th. Whoever the fucking hell _he_ was supposed to go by.

"Don't move." Bookman warned, eyeing, too, the body next to mine—with ebony hair—cascading down, covering his face. Knocked unconscious almost immediately, from strain.

And there was Leverrier, bloodied in a corner, with Link standing protectively in front of him. Like a son to their father—which was a really _sick _analogy at this point in time.

Because Allen never _had_ that—and now I was noticing it too much. The shallow breath, getting even more shallow—Lenalee's body, shaking just _that_ much more as All—_The Musician_—came closer—and Road's grin getting that much more maniacal.

All in the course of ten seconds flat.

I had less than that, maybe—when my hands reached out to grab the man next to me, to grab his exorcist jacket he wore with Pride.

And maybe

That _was_ the issue to begin with.

In the course of 2 seconds I realized—with Kanda, now _breathing_—heart, pumping—I could feel it against my chest—I didn't give a fuck.

"Sorry, Gramps." The old man looked shocked—for only a moment, before he _realized_ what I meant, "I'll have to break that rule, y'know? Just this once." Understanding flickered there, in his war-hardened eyes.

(Or at least I could pretend it was there. No one was _saying_ it was)

And maybe I felt just a tad sick, since I wasn't used to it. But that was a given because—how _could_ I be? Innocence. The kind of power it gave. I didn't have _ right_ to it, so much as it just _turned out _that way.

'_Dammit and I'm an Atheist for Christ's sake.' _

But that didn't matter so much now, and I could feel Kanda, becoming just that much more aware—and—"Make sure he doesn't die, please."

That was all I asked.

As the world started to slow—and I drew Tessei out of it's sheath, feeling it warm in my palm—

Because I wasn't sure—if I'd make it out of this.

~*~

(1)-We will speak of this later (greek)

(2)-Yes sir

**Err…don't ask where this came from. The idea sprang into my head…and I liked it. Naturally I only expected it to be, like, drabble-length (4 pages-ish). But I suck at writing short things XD**

**REVIEW PLEASE! This has the potential to become a two-shot (or to have another oneshot written...in the same timeline), but I'll only upload it if people like this one! **

**And now I'm off to bed (where I should've been...an hour ago XD)  
**


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